


isn't it delightful (playing easy)?

by ayjayjay



Category: Falsettos - Lapine/Finn
Genre: M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pre-Canon, i have thought too hard about whizzer and marvin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:41:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24853249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ayjayjay/pseuds/ayjayjay
Summary: The little ‘thing’ between Marvin and Whizzer, before their relationship was a formal affair, began innocuously, as far as adulterous trystscouldbe innocuous. Perhaps if Marvin had not gotten lost that night (trying to find his way to a bathhouse he’d read about in a magazine, for fuck’s sake), they may never have even known one another existed. And yet, on that night Whizzer found himself brushing elbows with the disheveled Marvin for the first time of many.
Relationships: Whizzer Brown/Marvin
Comments: 15
Kudos: 33





	1. whizzer, whizzer brown

**Author's Note:**

> if i have to fault the marvin trilogy with one thing, it's that whizzer gets nowhere near enough concrete characterization. so, to make up for that in my own mind, here is my (half-betaed) take on the long, ridiculous, arduous, overdramatic, overcomplicated, overemotional relationship between marvin and whizzer. 
> 
> pre-march of the falsettos, (eventually) complete with whizzer going down and marvin having many giddy seizures. as in real life, most unhappy endings have happy beginnings. 
> 
> edit, june 28, 2020:  
> [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2xKLTzANfM8cwE0dTp9tQs?si=gpNDCFoYSbSIBMtm3pr8dQ) is a link to the playlist i usually listen to when i brainstorm for this fic. i think that music can be expressive of so many emotions words can't describe, so please give it a listen if you're interested in hearing how i interpret whizzer/marvin on a lyrically and musically emotional level, haha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “A gentleman might ask for my phone number directly, you know.”
> 
> “And… you came to Harry’s looking for a gentleman?” Marvin asked, raising that damned eyebrow.
> 
> “Mm, like you came just to sit and drink.” Whizzer flicked the collar of Marvin’s shirt, then straightened it out again. “So I guess that means we both leave tonight disappointed.”
> 
> Marvin snorted. “I’m not disappointed at all. You’re something else, Whizzer Brown.” Secretly, Whizzer preened. “Will I see you again?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in this chapter: whizzer breaks the rules of his own game. marvin almost cheats on his wife. they dance.

The little ‘thing’ between Marvin and Whizzer, before their relationship was a formal affair, began innocuously, as far as adulterous trysts _could_ be innocuous. Perhaps if Marvin had not gotten lost that night (trying to find his way to a bathhouse he’d read about in a magazine, for fuck’s sake), they may never have even known one another existed. And yet, on that night Whizzer found himself brushing elbows with the disheveled Marvin for the first time of many, swirling the ice around in the bottom of his cup noisily. Marvin let out a sigh, cutting his eyes over to where Whizzer sat before looking away again, no doubt annoyed by the noise. Whizzer couldn’t help but huff a laugh through his nose, openly appraising Marvin’s profile as he turned away. In between Whizzer’s games of cat-and-mouse, bouncing through the bars of NYC looking for one good time after another, this was his other pastime; he liked to make up stories about the interlopers who stuck out like sore thumbs amongst the regulars of the bar. Occasionally he would strike up a conversation, and on occasion he had met a few good people from them, but usually he was content to invent his own narrative for them. Marvin, frumpy and hunched, guarding his bottle and staring at nothing, was… hm. Whizzer looked him up and down again. 

It wasn’t hard to judge the size of a man’s wallet (or dick, really) based on how he held himself and Marvin was... less than impressive, to put it nicely. He looked half-dressed, stale button-down with a saggy tie tucked into what Whizzer referred to as “yardwork jeans”, no belt to hold in the wrinkled mess. The deep-set laughter lines on his face seemed almost unused, and the creases in his forehead screamed of stress, of a life well lived, of _middle age_. Whizzer was a practiced people-watcher, and Marvin was as textbook as they came. He was definitely some kind of white-collar crony, despite his horrible choice in business casual attire, likely some kind of bank teller or administrative assistant or—god forbid—a data analyst. Married, judging by the ring on his finger he twisted anxiously, perhaps a father who watched M*A*S*H in the mornings with the kids. He was probably unhappy, especially if he was hanging out in a gay bar like Harry’s with his little gold band on full display. Maybe the wife didn’t like it from behind, or maybe she was a prude, and he just came to blow off his insatiable lust in order to cope with the rarely-scheduled missionary. Hell, maybe he was divorced, hiding from his problems and looking for a hooker.

When he caught Whizzer’s gaze on him, it was like a deer-in-headlights moment; Whizzer would have thought nothing of it, just a straight alcoholic who had no idea what awaited him when he stepped into Harry’s Back East, but Marvin lingered on him for a moment too long, eyes widening just a bit in surprise before he turned away too quickly. 

_Curious,_ Whizzer thought. _Very curious._

It could have been the light playing tricks, but Whizzer swore his ears were a little pinker. It wasn’t often that he wasted his time on obvious closet cases, and Marvin was officially the biggest offender he’d ever seen. Still, there was something about the way he had cast his eyes across Whizzer’s face that piqued his interest, the way his whole face had lit up in shock as if to ask _me? You’re looking at me?_ It was awfully innocent of him.

 _It can’t hurt,_ Whizzer had thought at the time. _It’s just one time, someone in a sea of no-ones._

In spite of what little self-preservation Whizzer still possessed, he bought Marvin a drink—stronger than a cheap beer, to get the wrinkle out of his brow—then another, then two more, and by the time he had drained that one, Whizzer had convinced him to dance. It had taken some convincing,m of course, but Whizzer had batted his eyes and said something like _It’s not about the size of the dancing shoe, it’s how you use it_ and Marvin had fallen for it hook, line, and sinker.

As they made their way onto the dance floor, now crowded with bodies, it seemed for a moment that Marvin was not as queer as Whizzer thought he might be; he gave protest when Whizzer’s hand slid against the curve of his spine, practically jumping out of his skin, and Whizzer had begun to turn, a sneer already half-formed and his tab already forgotten, but Marvin’s (sweaty) fingers wrapped around Whizzer’s wrist at the last moment and convinced him to stop. He tugged gently, and then harder, and it was then that Marvin closed the gap between them, reversing their positions with his own hand on the small of Whizzer’s back. They pressed close to one another in the crowd until Whizzer was winded and Marvin was sweatier, at which point Whizzer normally would have shrugged him off and disappeared, one in a long string of dance partners awaiting him.

 _I’m off to have a smoke_ ; Whizzer placated Marvin with bored practice, his go-to getaway line. Marvin, undeterred, followed him outside. Whizzer pulled a cigarette from the pack in his jacket pocket, but before he could reach for a flame Marvin produced one of his own, holding a match between two fingers; despite his expensive taste (which Marvin was obviously _not_ ), Whizzer leaned in.

“Incredible, really incredible,” Marvin rambled, almost like he was talking to himself. “Just… wow. Anyone could have walked in and seen me, right there, dancing with a guy. Surrounded by other guys. I mean, me!”

“I’m sorry,” Whizzer cut in, not sorry at all. “Did you want me to reply?”

Marvin seemed to remember himself with a start, clearing his throat and smoothing down his (already helplessly wrinkled and ill-fitting) shirt. “No,” he said seriously, but his mouth curled up in the corner in a devious way, giving away a dimple hidden there. 

Whizzer cocked his eyebrow, and Marvin cocked his own in response. It was then that Whizzer had another go at sizing him up. He wasn’t exactly gorgeous, what with his prematurely greying temples and the telltale bags under his eyes that practically _screamed_ domestic, but there was something there he couldn’t deny had piqued his interest. Marvin looked unlike anyone Whizzer had seen before, and especially not in any of the bars he frequented; that was perhaps what made him stick around, or maybe it was the alcohol clouding his critical thinking skills. He wasn’t Whizzer’s type by any means, and he most definitely wasn’t rich enough to compensate for it, but in the orange streetlight glow he looked softer, younger than before. Whizzer realized that it was the first time he had seen Marvin’s face completely relaxed, even when they had been sandwiched together on the dance floor. 

“So… what,” Whizzer asked after a beat of silence. “You followed me outside to hold me hostage for your little sexuality crisis?”

“No,” Marvin repeated, though his ears tinted pink again and called his own bluff. “I—I’m completely confident with my… well.” 

Whizzer hummed in half-amusement, blowing the smoke from his cigarette towards Marvin’s face. “Oh, yes,” he replied absently, pondering the pros and cons of both walking and taking the bus. He brought his thumb to his mouth out of habit, whittling away at the nail between his front teeth. “Completely confident. So secure you don’t even have to say it.”

“Absolutely,” Marvin agreed, but his thoughts seemed to be elsewhere, too, and he twisted at his ring finger again, worrying at the band there. For some reason, though if confronted Whizzer would deny it vehemently, this pissed him off irrationally. Whizzer was nothing if not a prideful man, and even if he wasn’t planning on taking Marvin home, he could still be affronted by the implication that he hadn’t dazzled enough. And Whizzer _was_ affronted, though he wouldn’t dare show it to some stranger, even if that stranger had inadvertently drained Whizzer’s wallet all night. “You know, you shouldn’t bite your nails. It makes your teeth crooked.”

“You shouldn’t go to gay bars without your beard. It’s way less convincing.” He stuck the offending hand in his pocket anyway. 

_Seriously, who commented on a guy’s nail biting habits?_

Whizzer finished his cigarette, bending at the waist and crushing the cherried end against the sidewalk. He could practically feel Marvin’s eyes on his ass, predictable as he was, and he rolled his eyes as he stuck the little orange butt between the laces of his loafers and righted himself. Once he was standing properly, he brushed imaginary ash from the front of his jacket. Marvin seemed to snap free from whatever trance his thoughts had put him under, and he cleared his throat, straightening his own wrinkled shirt self-consciously.

“Well,” Whizzer said, as much as dismissal as any. “I’m hanging up my dancing shoes. I guess I’ll be off then.” 

He didn’t usually wait for a reply before he began his walk home, but something—there it was again, that _something_ about Marvin—compelled him to linger. It was annoying how magnetic the anxious dope beside him seemed to be, even while doing nothing, and how much Whizzer craved the attention. Still, Whizzer turned to face the streetlamp, hiding his expression from Marvin as if he actually _did_ intend to go. It had the desired effect; as if he was afraid Whizzer would escape if he strayed too far from his grasp, Marvin once again reached out and grabbed for Whizzer’s wrist. 

“Wait,” Marvin mumbled, then repeated himself louder. “Just… wait, okay? I’m--It’s not fair if you disappear after... after _that_ , in there. Please, stick around for one more song.” His tone was hesitant, almost nervous, though his fingers traced a gentle pattern of nonsense against Whizzer’s skin.

 _God damn it,_ Whizzer thought. He couldn’t help the way his stomach dropped into his socks at the plea, at the thumb against the veins under his skin; he turned to face Marvin again. “I don’t really do last dances, babe,” he said, already fully aware that he had already broken almost all of his own rules by playing around with a shackled, broke, and frumpy... stockbroker all night. Lawyer. Schoolteacher, even.

Hell, why _not_ stick around for a last dance? Why not follow him home, meet the wife and kids for breakfast in the morning?

“I don’t even know your name,” Marvin said, and he closed the distance between himself and Whizzer with an easy step. They had been close before, but in the sea of bodies on the dance floor, Whizzer hadn’t noticed that Marvin was shorter than him, that he was growing in a little five o’clock shadow on his jaw that begged to be kissed. Marvin licked his lips nervously, and Whizzer watched. Marvin, of course, watched Whizzer watch with that same expression that had roped Whizzer in, that _please please pick me_ gaze that seemed to melt Whizzer’s heels into the concrete.

“You won’t believe me if I tell you,” Whizzer replied, but he looked around and checked if the coast was clear before kissing Marvin anyway, enjoying the way Marvin’s stubbly face tickled his cheeks. It wasn’t deep, wasn’t exactly a sparks-flying fairytale kiss, but there was passion behind it, and Marvin had the decency to put his hand on Whizzer’s lower back again and pull him just a bit closer. He even slid his fingers lower on the hand that held Whizzer’s wrist, pressing his moist palm against Whizzer’s own.

When they pulled apart, Marvin’s eyes were wide again; Whizzer couldn’t help but grin, wondering what exactly was going through his mind. Fortunately, his dashing little family man was apparently prone to blurting his thoughts, letting his opinions be known, and he summed up Whizzer’s feelings exactly with a soft exclamation of “wow.” 

Whizzer leaned down and kissed him again, just to see the pink spread across his face a little more. “Whizzer,” he said once Marvin's mouth released his, brushing a curl away from Marvin’s tragic sideburn.

“Beg pardon?”

“You asked my name? It’s Whizzer.” Marvin’s brow furrowed, and he opened his mouth to speak, no doubt something smarmy in response to the unorthadox name, but Whizzer cut him off. “Brown, but I'm not in the phone book, so don't bother looking.” Marvin’s mouth shut abruptly, and Whizzer's knowing grin widened. “A gentleman might ask for my phone number directly, you know.”

“And… you came to Harry’s looking for a gentleman?” Marvin asked, raising that damned eyebrow.

“Mm, like you came just to sit and drink.” Whizzer flicked the collar of Marvin’s shirt, then straightened it out again. “So I guess that means we both leave tonight disappointed.”

Marvin snorted. “I’m not disappointed at all. You’re something else, Whizzer Brown.” Secretly, Whizzer preened. “Will I see you again?”

It was a flattering notion, certainly, but Whizzer didn’t make any one bar his residence, tried not to make a habit or a target of himself. Still, he found himself nodding along to Marvin’s silent plea, and kissed him again, this time slipping his tongue past Marvin’s dumbfounded lips for good measure. Damn him, it was addictive; Marvin’s mouth was chapped and chaste and somehow not tasting of alcohol at all. Whizzer was positive the same couldn’t be said for his own mouth, but it’s not like Marvin seemed to give a damn. His hand slipped down to Whizzer’s ass, finally pulling him close in _just_ the right way, apparently feeling emboldened by the tongue probing around behind his teeth. It was hot, and it was a little rough, the way Marvin’s hands explored his back. He tugged Whizzer’s shirt free from his trousers, tracing a palm up his spine as they embraced. It was almost enough to tempt Whizzer into a taxi or a hotel room, and clearly Marvin felt the same, shoving a knee between Whizzer’s knee as they parted.

“You’ll have to wait around and see. I could give you a call sometime, if you give me your name.”

“It’s... It's Marvin.”

“Just Marvin?” Whizzer shook his head in mock shame as Marvin nodded guiltily, pressing his hips into Marvin's before he pulled away entirely. “I guess… hm. I’ll just have to go through the yellow pages tonight and use my imagination.” He smoothed Marvin’s shirt one last time, already missing the warm body, and kissed him on the jaw for posterity. “I’ll be around, just Marvin. Will you?”


	2. he hates my wife

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some semblance of pride swelled in Whizzer’s chest, knowing that Marvin still recognized him all those weeks later, that to him Whizzer was also a red mark in his ledger he couldn’t scratch out. (In that respect, at least, he and Marvin were the same.)
> 
> As they made an uncomfortable amount of terrified eye contact, Whizzer’s feet miraculously began to move again, and he had almost eclipsed Marvin’s cart when Marvin’s wife uttered a terrible string of words neither of them wanted to hear at that moment.
> 
> “Marv, do you know that man?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hiya, thanks for checking out this chapter! my rescue kitten had to be put down yesterday, and i wrote this as a distraction from the big ball of emotion i'm not really interested in unpacking right now. thank you for the kudoses and the comments from those of you who left them; it means a lot, because i was unsure of whether i wanted to post this in the first place, and i was especially unsure as to whether i wanted to continue this after yesterday. it was pretty thereaputic, and i hope you all enjoy it.
> 
> in this chapter: whizzer visits the grocery store. marvin tells a lie or two. trina expresses her interest in proper hygiene.
> 
> thank you for reading!

After their night together at Harry’s had ended, Whizzer had tried to forget about Marvin and his stupid tie and his sweaty hands. Whether he could chalk it up to the wedding ring or the alcohol or both, he couldn’t be sure, but his subconscious led him many times to the block on which Harry’s resided, at which point he would realize himself, straighten the collar of his jacket, and continue on, searching for another locale in which to whet his whistle. It was like a Pavlovian response; if Whizzer found himself a vodka tonic deep and bored of the bar he was currently in, he would absently stalk the street with a cigarette in his hand, giving himself the excuse that the walking was good for him, that Harry’s was an appropriate place to stop and take a breather, et cetera, ad nauseum.

It was fucking ridiculous. 

Whizzer didn’t _do_ long-term. He didn’t even do dates, for god’s sake, and especially not in New York City, where the everlong line of men revolved through the nightlife scenes like a hotel door. It was his entire reason for _coming_ to the city that never slept, so he could find someone to sleep with every night of the week. It was so unlike the small-town hookups Whizzer could never seem to look in the eyes when he passed them in the only grocery store for miles. It was anonymous. It was easy, and so were the guys. He could count on one hand how many times he’d seen a man he’d slept with in the daylight with fingers to spare, for god’s sake. 

But Marvin… somehow, he had reduced even the most logical parts of Whizzer’s psyche into mashed potatoes in one night, and Whizzer found himself thinking about him constantly. On the train ride home, he bristled with excitement every time a shaggy head of hair stood in front of him. When he stopped to buy a hot dog from a vendor outside Battery Park, he found himself wondering what Marvin actually did for a living, and whether they were mere yards apart at any part of the day. Even in bed, when the cigarette smoke curled up and out the window and the warm body beside him was as good of a lover as the mysterious stranger he’d encountered nights previous. It was mortifying, the borderline obsession he felt over one stupid night with one stupid cheating bastard. It had to say something about his taste in men.

Still, he found himself a master of willpower, and he created yet another rule to follow. Mind over matter, as it were. No more Harry’s, until he could kick this schoolgirl crush. _Besides,_ he told himself, _it’s impossible to find a man in New York City when he doesn’t want to be. It’s better not to hold out hope._

Determined to return to his routine, or some semblance of it, he’d decided one day to clear his head and go out somewhere that wasn’t a bar or a bodega for both his wallet’s, and his pantry’s, sake. He was no five star chef, and most nights he forewent the kitchen altogether in favor of takeout, but his peanut butter and sliced bread stashes were getting uncomfortably low, so he set out to the dull task of buying his own groceries, like a goddamn adult should. (Yet another part of his routine, and one he was eager to return to, was his fantastic ability to convince himself and others that he did adult things on the regular.)

He found himself sweating like a band geek at a party, face white as a sheet as he turned his wobbly shopping cart down the frozen vegetable aisle and froze mid-push. He had been in search of a bag of peas (since the canned ones were so tinny and mushy), and instead he found Marvin, mulling over the prices of bags of cauliflower with his wife, presumably. And worse, at her side was a scrawny child that was undoubtedly theirs, complete with her nose and Marvin’s forlorn expression.

In any other circumstance, Whizzer would have hoofed it to the check-out counters or abandoned his trip altogether, as with any other hookup he happened to spot in the wild. However, since Marvin was technically not his hookup at all, his feet remained planted to the spot, even when Marvin’s eyes landed on him and turned to that deer-in-headlights expression yet again, so similar to their night together and yet so different. Rather than the excitement or innocent curiosity Whizzer had been pining over for a solid month, his own horror was reflected in Marvin’s expression. Still, some semblance of pride swelled in Whizzer’s chest, knowing that Marvin still recognized him all those weeks later, that to him Whizzer was also a red mark in his ledger he couldn’t scratch out. (In that respect, at least, he and Marvin were the same.)

As they made an uncomfortable amount of terrified eye contact, Whizzer’s feet miraculously began to move again, and he had almost eclipsed Marvin’s cart when Marvin’s wife uttered a terrible string of words neither of them wanted to hear at that moment.

“Marv, do you know that man?”

Whizzer paused, calculating his next move, before deciding altogether that it was a bad idea to engage first. Though the height of Whizzer’s standards, or lack thereof, would forever live in infamy, he was not a homewrecker who made a stink of things in the frozen food aisle. And even if he was, he _definitely_ wasn’t a homewrecker for someone he hadn’t even slept with, obsession be damned. Leaving the decision to engage up to Marvin was the best plan of attack, and so Whizzer mulled over different brands of broccoli with sweat pooling on his brow, barely conscious of the names and prices as he strained to hear the course of action his unfortunate object of affection chose.

“Who, him? Oh, I—” Marvin cleared his throat. Whizzer’s life began to flash before his eyes; to die by jealous wife was a horrible way to die. He wondered what his gravestone would read, and whether his parents would let any of his gaudy friends from university attend. “I recognize him from work, but I don’t think we’ve spoken much beyond professional matters. He… he works in a different department than I do. Public Relations, I believe.”

Marvin’s wife seemed to smack him none-too-gently on the arm, and though she whispered her reply, it was far too loud for Whizzer not to hear. “Why don’t you go and say hello, then? He looks sort of sad, shopping all by himself like that. He’s probably embarrassed you saw him.”

“I—I, um.” Marvin seemed at a loss for words. His next sentence came out dripping with anxiety. Whizzer winced when his voice cracked. “I think I will, actually. Ahaha, it’s rude not to, right? Hey, um, hey Whizzer!”

And just like that, Whizzer’s worst nightmare materialized into reality. Marvin’s wife, his doe-eyed child, now knew his name. Knew of his connection to the no-doubt doting husband, however fabricated the excuse. Fucking straight men, never knowing how to keep their god damn mouths shut. Still, Whizzer was as merciful as he was indiscreet, and he turned on his heel with a winning smile, pushing his hair out of his eyes as he pretended to notice Marvin for the first time.

“Marvin,” he said warmly, extending his hand to Marvin’s with a tight expression behind his eyes. Marvin, smartly, accepted the handshake, and he subtly gave Whizzer’s fingers in his own a hard squeeze, and his fingers lingered as they pulled away. Hell, for all Whizzer knew it could be his genuine grip, but then again, he had held Whizzer’s hand at Harry’s and it had been soft, considerate, and if it _was_ his normal grip, why would he linger? “I wasn’t sure if that was you, buddy!”

Whizzer winced to himself. _Buddy_ , he thought, mentally giving the back of his own head a smack. _Buddy?!_ God, being straight was too hard. He tended to overthink it constantly in delicate circumstances such as this; was ‘buddy’ a thing adults called one another anymore? Was it cliche? Was it too informal? 

“Haha…” Marvin said awkwardly. Fortunately for Whizzer, Marvin seemed to be in the same mental space as him. “Yep, you caught me with the old ball-and-chain.” He looked over at his wife, then at his son. “Well, actually both of them this time. You remember Jason, from bring-your-kid-to-work day?”

Jason, the scrawny kid with Marvin’s eyes, appraised him with an aggressively trained eye. “I don’t remember him,” he said unhelpfully, and Whizzer willed him to burst into flames.

“Do you remember anyone, kid?” Marvin asked, though his expression flared with panic. Still, it seemed to shut Jason up, if the embarrassed shake of his head was anything to go by. 

“Don’t be rude, dear,” Marvin’s wife scolded, tugging on Jason’s t-shirt with a frown.

Whizzer forced a laugh. “It’s no big deal. I’ve been told I have a very forgettable face,” he said, jaw tight.

“Nonsense,” the wife beamed, her hand on Jason’s shoulder. “I think you’re very handsome. You don’t see too many clean-shaven men around New York anymore, or at least I don’t.” She gestured with her eyes at Marvin, who seemed to wilt a little under her whinging. God, it made Whizzer sick to see him playing happy mommy and daddy, but that definitely made it a little more bearable. “If only Marvin would shave after work, I think he’d look much younger.”

“Oh, please,” Whizzer said, forgetting himself for a moment as he slipped in a bit of genuine honesty. “He’s a catch, sweetheart. Consider yourself lucky.” Marvin glared at Whizzer, and he cleared his throat before reconsidering his tone. “Young ladies these days like the hardworking look. You wouldn’t believe how hard it is to get a date looking so daisy-fresh, but I like to keep myself cleaned up.”

“See?” Marvin’s wife preened, gleefully oblivious to Whizzer’s tell. “Saul was right. There _are_ people outside the neighborhood who care about the impression their appearances give others. Would you like to come to dinner tonight, Whizzer? I’m making kishke!”

“Wow, um,” Whizzer said. “You know, I’d—”

“Nope!” Marvin cut him off. “I—uh, I—I don’t think that’s a good idea, sweetheart. Whizzer is… He’s, ah… you know, he’s—”

“Vegetarian,” Whizzer lied easily. “I’m honored, but I’d feel guilty if I didn’t eat a wife's home-cooked meal.”

Marvin looked at Whizzer with such relief and wonder that it made his insides do a funny twirl despite the circumstances. Whizzer ran his fingers through his hair nervously and Marvin’s pupils widened. He’d somehow trapped Whizzer in the worst lie of the 20th century and yet he still made Whizzer’s mouth turn to a desert in his presence. The look in Marvin’s eyes shifted to something familiar, and he allowed himself to take Whizzer in for a moment, eyes raking down Whizzer’s body to his smart trousers and polished shoes.

Damn him, it made Whizzer’s mouth water, standing in front of his wife and being undressed right there like there wasn’t a person around. What a bastard.

“How... urban of you!” Marvin’s wife hummed in faux approval. “I could always make a quiche, save the sausage for another day…” 

Marvin’s eyes re-alighted with panic, and Whizzer sighed inwardly. “It’s really all right, Mrs…”

“Trina,” Marvin cut in for her, wrapping an arm around her waist stiffly and pulling her close. “Please, call her Trina. Last names are so informal!”

Trina looked at Marvin with her eyebrows raised, obviously as confused as Whizzer had been about Marvin’s reluctance to share their surname, but said nothing. She only leaned in with a stunted smile as Jason began to wander down the aisle and peer into the different freezers, apparently finally growing bored of the adults talking.

“Trina, then.” he repeated back, gritting his teeth. “I, um, have plans for the evening anyway, but really. I’m flattered. I suppose Marvin will just have to ask me to dinner on another day.” He began to grab for his shopping cart blindly, throwing in a bag of broccoli he didn’t even want from the freezer. “Aha... I _do_ love quiche,” he added weakly.

“And my wife’s is the best,” Marvin said defensively. “Are you ready to go, honey? I’m starved.”

Whizzer shook Marvin’s hand goodbye, teeth creaking under the weight of his jealousy as he kissed Trina’s cheek before they vacated the aisle. He crouched down beside his cart, using the handle for support with shaking hands as he processed what had just happened. Once he gave them a wide enough window of time to vacate the surrounding aisles, he abandoned his shopping cart altogether, taking the train back to his apartment with his head between his legs the entire ride. Once in the comfort of his own dingy apartment, he retrated to the edge of his bed, where he chalked up the day as a lost cause while breathing in and out in uneven intervals.


	3. i hate his food

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oh, god,” Whizzer sighed, brutally honest in the moment despite the little jolt of excitement that ran through him upon seeing Marvin’s face again. The shy grin there fell wonderfully, and Whizzer felt a little vindicated knowing Marvin was licking a wound of his own. Honestly, he was starting to think his hookups had been deliberately avoiding him, with the way he seemed to find Marvin so easily, or vice versa. Whizzer slid his shades to the top of his head, pulling the damp hair out of his face and placing a hand on his hip. “I mean, oh, goodie. It’s you. Are you stalking me?”
> 
> “No, I—wait, are you kidding me?” Marvin crossed his arms and his eyebrows creased delightfully. Whizzer was reminded of the moment they had really met beyond a few words in the other’s ear on the dance floor, when he saw Marvin’s stress melt away in the dim orange of the streetlamp outside Harry’s. It was annoying. “If I was stalking you, do you really think I’d wait this long to confront you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for all the kind words left on my last chapter, even though it was a lot shorter than i wanted it to be. i was honestly a little disappointed in it myself, but it was worldbuilding so that this chapter could have somewhere to go! i'm a serial fic abandoner and i'm glad that i haven't lost even a little bit of steam writing this! have faith in the process, friends!
> 
> in this chapter: whizzer works it out. marvin gets honest, and makes a friend(?).
> 
> as always, thank you for reading. :3

Every Friday afternoon, Whizzer made a point to make the trek to the YMCA on foot, gym bag in tow and sunglasses on. It was a nice walk, and in the New York summers, he enjoyed the sunshine and the crowds, weaving in and out of the seas of halted tourists with a practiced ease. One might even think him a native, were it not for his penchant for blocking small sections of the sidewalk to capture a particularly beautiful piece of architecture or skyline with his travelling polaroid camera. (Call him a hopeless romantic for the city, but the brutalist buildings cuddling up close to the reflective skyscrapers was still a mesmerizing sight, and it always would be.) His first year in the city, he had been a very prominent member of the racquetball league that met at this particular Y, but that following winter he had caught a nasty flu and had let his dues pile up, swiftly ejecting him from that social circle. Nowadays he met up with a few of the current league members on Thursdays, and on occasion played with the others who had drifted from the professional aspect of the sport, but he’d never really had much of an interest in playing _anything_ beyond recreation and exercise, especially since he wasn’t getting paid for his athletic prowess. 

It had mostly been a way for him to meet men anyway, considering the indiscreet connotations associated with what his father had graciously referred to as “tennis for a man’s man”, but he could go to bars for that now that he’d found them, and so his wallet appreciated the lesser burden and he didn’t feel any particular sadness falling out of touch with the vaguely muscled men in his league. 

The best thing about racquetball by far was that if Whizzer was feeling particularly antisocial, he could chalk it up to needing practice and enter the court alone. The bouncing of the ball against the wall, the rhythmic rise and fall of his breaths, the sounds of his shoes hitting the concrete below… it was like a sedative or a stiff glass of wine at the end of the night, transforming the near-constant swirl of thoughts in Whizzer’s mind to nothing but white noise, the end of a television broadcast, the moment before one pushes off the pool floor and rises back to the surface. 

And it _was_ good practice besides, matching his forehand against his backhand, keeping the mental tally of which made-up opponent was being demolished on the court. Today he was pretending to smoke the poor vice president, Walter Mondale, but the outcome was no surprise considering he was in his fifties, struggling to keep up with a man in his—ahem- _hem_ —mid-to-late twenties.

By the time Whizzer had lost track of his score, he was panting with the effort of beating himself at his own game, and craving a less than imaginary smoke. He enjoyed a brief cool shower in the largely vacant locker room, changing back into his street clothes and wondering all the while about whether it would be more fiscally responsible to kick the habit altogether in a few months. He nodded to the desk attendant as he procured a cigarette from his pocket and tucked it behind his ear to be polite. It was already a scorching afternoon, and Whizzer made to jaywalk to the spot outside the bodegas across the street where the hunched elderly women peddled their fresh fruit, Marlboro now sandwiched between his lips, but an unexpected hand on his shoulder startled him into stopping short of the curb. The cigarette slipped from his mouth as he gasped and jumped, rolling sadly into a pile of what appeared to be motor oil and garbage juice, running off the trash bags piled up for Friday collection.

“Whizzer, hey—” a chipper voice began, but Whizzer cut him off with a hard grip around the wrist, roughly shrugging the hand off and whirling around with instinctual defensiveness.

It was Marvin, because of course it was, hands raised in a surrender as Whizzer calmed himself. 

After that stint they’d both pulled at the grocery store, Whizzer had gone back to Harry’s only twice in the past few weeks, and both times he’d failed to make contact with anyone who had so much as seen a glimpse of the man before him in the tacky mismatched blazer and trousers. It had lingered as an annoying little heartbreak, standing out from the other long string of annoying little heartbreaks for a few days before he’d moved on and slept with a cellist he met on the subway. That had been nice as a distraction, at least, but of course— _of course_ —the universe had to give him everything he wanted after he finished wanting it so badly he could die.

“Oh, god,” Whizzer sighed, brutally honest in the moment despite the little jolt of excitement that ran through him upon seeing Marvin’s face again. The shy grin there fell wonderfully, and Whizzer felt a little vindicated knowing Marvin was licking a wound of his own. Honestly, he was starting to think his hookups had been deliberately avoiding him, with the way he seemed to find Marvin so easily, or vice versa. Whizzer slid his shades to the top of his head, pulling the damp hair out of his face and placing a hand on his hip. “I mean, oh, goodie. It’s you. Are you stalking me?”

“No, I—wait, are you kidding me?” Marvin crossed his arms and his eyebrows creased delightfully. Whizzer was reminded of the moment they had really met beyond a few words in the other’s ear on the dance floor, when he saw Marvin’s stress melt away in the dim orange of the streetlamp outside Harry’s. It was annoying. “If I was stalking you, do you really think I’d wait this long to confront you?” Only a closeted homosexual like Marvin could be affronted by the notion that he was a _bad_ stalker.

Whizzer shrugged, procuring another cigarette. “I don’t even know you,” he said honestly. “We’ve only met twice, you know, and last time wasn’t what I’d call a confrontation.”

Marvin sighed. “Listen, I know how it looked.”

“Bad,” Whizzer said, raising a lighter to the Marlboro. “It _looks_ —as in the present tense—an awful lot like that ring you were jerking off at Harry’s has some pretty big attachments.”

“Whizzer, don’t be _difficult_ ,” Marvin hissed, looking around the sidewalk as though the uninterested pedestrians crossing at the corner really gave a damn about their conversation. “I’m not—it isn’t like that at all.”

Whizzer laughed sourly and shook his head. “Are you seriously trying to spin a wife and kid to sound more appealing to... to what, your little homo-crush? They sure do breed all sorts in New York, that’s for sure.” If Marvin wanted to play stupid and rewrite the narrative of his own indescretion, it wasn’t Whizzer’s problem, but he could easily lead Marvin on the chase for his own amusement for a free meal if it turned out that he just wanted to spew bullcrap all afternoon. At least he was still cute, and at least he had shaved since they last met.

“Now you’re just being bratty,” Marvin sighed. “We should talk about this somewhere else—somewhere private, if you don’t mind. Let me take you out for lunch, please.”

Whizzer’s time could not be coerced out of him with sweet words and apologies, but it could certainly be bought with a _please_ and a promise of a meal, which was exactly how he found himself agreeing to being crammed into a booth at a diner he’d once thought a bit too grimy for his classy sensibilities, stomach growling and twisting uncomfortably as the waitress took their drink orders and snapped her gum; she brought back a water with lemon for Whizzer, as well as coffee with sugar and no cream for Marvin.

It had taken some coaxing, but Marvin had eventually gotten a proper food order out of Whizzer; and as the waitress retreated with their ticket, he sipped on his coffee, eyes not leaving Whizzer’s once. Whizzer sipped his own water suspiciously, eyebrow raised.

“So, ah,” Marvin began, gesturing to Whizzer’s gym bag. “Were you working out?”

“You got me into this booth at this shithole dive to talk to me about my workout habits?” He sighed. “But yes, and no. I was playing racquetball.”

“I’ve never played it,” Marvin said awkwardly.

“I know you haven't."

The silence stretched on until Whizzer couldn’t stand it anymore, and he pinched at the space between his eyes for a moment before he decided to extend a lifeline to Marvin, who was treating Whizzer like a startled cat trapped under the sofa. Whizzer wondered if he’d ever had another man out to lunch like this, whether he’d ever put himself in a position to do so. Judging by the way he cowered in his booth, Whizzer guessed the answer was probably no.

“Okay, Marvin, look. I think… ugh. I think you’re awfully cute, and I had a lot of fun dancing with you, but you have to understand I’m not… whatever that was, at the grocery store. And I get the strong feeling you’re not whatever _Harry’s_ was, or at least you shouldn’t be. I don’t see why this has to be some drawn-out thing when it’s as cut and dry as it can be.”

“It’s really not,” Marvin said, and under the table his foot came to rest against Whizzer’s own. He didn’t try anything more, probably too unsure of what to do once he’d initiated the contact. “You don’t need some kind of family history, but you have to know this wasn’t really in the cards for me. I wasn’t expecting this—you—to happen to me. And I’m sure you hear it all the time, what with you being so handsome and charming and, well, practiced…”

“Gay, you mean,” Whizzer replied, though he brushed his own foot against Marvin’s in response. It seemed to release the tension in Marvin’s shoulders a bit, in turn releasing the tension in Whizzer’s as well. Whizzer cursed himself for caving in so easily, for wanting to rub Marvin’s back as he sipped his coffee with a pale face and earnest expression in his eyes. But what Marvin had said was true—Whizzer hadn’t expected Marvin either, and especially not to find him so easily in a crowd not once but twice, in New _fucking_ York City of all places. He didn’t believe in cheesy things like fate, but still…

Marvin choked on his coffee, eyes glancing nervously over at the counter, where the waitress mulled over a coffee pot and snapped her annoying gum again. She didn’t even glance up as Marvin wiped his spit off the table. “And _indiscreet,_ apparently,” he hissed, still coughing.

“You were in the middle of complimenting me?”

“What I wanted to say was that I’ve always sort of known I was, well… like you,” he said, leaning closer to Whizzer across the table to lower his voice. “It’s a long story, regarding my wife, and I’ll tell it to you one day if you like, but please understand this is not how I’m meant to be living my life. I’ve gone to bath-houses, gone to bars. Hell, I saw a drag show by myself on New Year’s Eve, and basically emptied my wallet out in an hour and a half. The point is, I’ve never met anyone like you, Whizzer Brown. Nobody’s ever made me feel so... so… so I don’t know! That’s the whole problem! I’ve been going crazy thinking about you, Whizzer!”

He smelled good, like coffee and sweat and a cheap aftershave that made Whizzer’s nose crinkle and something entirely Marvin. Whizzer wondered if it was how his house smelled, how his _wife_ smelled, and his child, but Marvin reached across the table and stroked Whizzer’s hand with his thumb, sending the thoughts shooting out of his head at light speed. It was overwhelming, coupled with the startlingly passionate confession, and Whizzer felt himself flush. How long had it been since he’d been spoken to so candidly? A decade, probably. Long before college, and it had even been a woman, if he recalled right. 

Whizzer was speechless, and Marvin looked discouraged, but he didn’t move his hand until the waitress clattered their plates down unceremoniously. Whizzer busied himself with the food in front of him, stuffing a fry in his mouth and groaning despite his otherwise immaculate table manners. 

“You know, I don’t usually eat greasy crap like this,” he lied after he had finished chewing. Marvin didn’t touch his own plate, instead looking at Whizzer with pleading eyes, and Whizzer sighed, admitting his own defeat. “Look,” he said after another sip of water. “I was being honest before—I think you’re a swell guy, but I still don’t even know who you are. For god’s sake, you didn’t even give me your name, and all you know about me is that I’m gay and I like racquetball.”

“I could get to know you,” Marvin offered. “We could get to know each other."

“And that’s all you want from this? Getting to know one another?” Marvin grimaced, looking down at his lap, and that itself spoke volumes. “I’m not going to be your boyfriend, Marvin, and especially not behind your family’s back. Expectations don’t look good on anyone.”

“I know,” Marvin acquiesced. “I know it isn’t ideal. It’s a son of a bitch of a situation to put you in at all. But we could—we could be friends, right? And I won’t give up on this, but I won’t force you to play boyfriend with me. You can come and have lunch with me, dinner if you want—away from Jason and Trina, a few nights a week. We can go on walks, or something else, whatever you want to do, on your time. I can prove to you that I’m worth spending time with, Whizzer. Just… just give me the chance, please.”

Whizzer paused politely as the waitress refilled Marvin’s coffee. “Do you think I could borrow that pen of yours, sweetheart?” he asked her, and she left it at the table before disappearing into the kitchen once more. Whizzer tore a napkin from the half-empty dispenser and scribbled his phone number on it, folding it in half before sliding it across the table to Marvin. “I’m telling you right now, Marvin, don’t get your hopes up. If you call and I don’t pick up, you better not lose it or do something stupid like leave your wife and tear up Alphabet City looking for me. I’m a busy man, but… I’m usually home by eight unless I’m going out, and I don’t leave until around eleven. Now can we _please_ have lunch like two adults, with a conversation more pleasant than cheating on your wife?”


End file.
